Holy Island: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by LJ Ross

  “Her dad wouldn’t have liked it,” Pete said, then flushed again.

  “Bit protective, was he?”

  Pete snorted. “That’s putting it lightly. If he ever caught me looking at her twice, he would have strung me up.”

  “Wonder what he thought about Alex?” Phillips mused.

  “I don’t know whether he knew or not, but Lucy was kind of rebelling. She said how she didn’t care what he thought or what anybody thought.”

  “What did you think?”

  Pete fiddled with his tea cup.

  “Look, I like Alex a lot. He’s a really decent bloke,” his boyish face was earnest. “But he’s always had a bit of an eye for the ladies. I don’t think he would have settled down with Lucy.”

  They could have asked more, but by tacit agreement Ryan and Phillips left it there.

  “Fair enough,” Ryan said and switched tracks again. “You and Lucy being close, you would know about the sort of things she believed in, right?”

  Pete looked momentarily confused.

  “Sure,” he shrugged.

  “What about Paganism?”

  There it was, Ryan thought, as worry skid across the other man’s face.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Pete lied, eyes darting to the door again.

  “Your mother can’t hear you from here,” Ryan said quietly, pinning the man with his stare which was enough to make Pete gulp. “I want the truth, Pete. You’re not in any trouble. Yet.”

  Pete’s lips trembled slightly. His mother was an active member of the church council.

  “Look, ah, it was just a bit of a laugh, really,” he laughed nervously. “A few of us would meet on the beach, build a bonfire and get drunk, mostly.”

  “Like the bonfire somebody built for Rob Fowler?”

  Ryan’s quiet words fell like an axe.

  “No, no,” Pete held out both hands and his voice jumped. “I’m telling you I have no idea who would do that. Look, I’m just talking about getting pissed on the beach and singing a few songs.”

  “Ever do anything else?”

  “Some people – maybe.”

  “What and who?” Ryan said flatly.

  “Just people from high school, like Lucy and her mates; me and some of the guys from the harbour. Some of them did a bit more than dance, maybe they had sex a few times and stuff like that.”

  “You didn’t?”

  Pete’s lips clamped shut and Ryan took that for acquiescence. Seemed like Pete never got lucky.

  “OK, so a few of you met on the beach, got jiggy with it, whatever,” Ryan shrugged. “What about drugs?”

  Pete looked desperately at the door.

  “Look, I – “

  “Son, we’re not going to book you for getting high and we’re not going to run and tell your mama,” Phillips interjected, ignoring Ryan’s fierce look. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “OK,” Pete swallowed. “OK. Maybe there were a few things kicking around, once or twice.”

  “Any of them hallucinogenic?”

  “You mean like mushrooms? Yeah, a couple of times, except they were like these little seeds,” he said.

  “Where’d they come from?” Phillips asked idly, munching on another one of Alison’s excellent ginger biscuits.

  Pete looked miserable, but another glance at Ryan’s granite-like face was enough to keep him talking.

  “Lucy brought them,” he fidgeted in his seat. “They were in a little red velvet bag.”

  “That’s awfully convenient,” Ryan commented dryly. “Easy to point the finger at someone who can’t defend themselves, Pete.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” he argued. “I hate ratting on Lucy like this. Please, please don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  Ryan just looked at him.

  “Like I say, she brought them, but she never told me where she got them.”

  “You sure?”

  Pete nodded and his eyes never wavered. Ryan exchanged another glance with Phillips and carried on.

  “You ever heard of something called ‘camphor’, Pete?”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Sure. Lucy had this book and there was a list of ingredients at the back for performing rituals and stuff like that. I’m pretty sure that was on the list. I don’t know what it was for.”

  “Sounds like Lucy took it all pretty seriously,” Ryan said.

  “Yeah,” Pete said slowly. “I guess she did. She started getting really into it over the summer, wanted to add chants and costumes when we were all just fooling around.”

  “You know where she kept the book?”

  “Dunno – at home?”

  “Couple of other things, Pete,” Ryan pretended to consult his notebook for a moment while he thought about the next line of questioning. “You ever been inside Megan’s apartment?”

  Pete fidgeted.

  “No-o, not that I remember,” he said uncertainly.

  Ryan almost smiled.

  “Would it help your memory, if I told you that we found your prints all around it?”

  “You can’t have!”

  “Really? Why not?” Ryan leaned forward, fixed Pete with a stare.

  “It was ages ago,” Pete mumbled. “She must’ve cleaned them away by now.”

  Both Ryan and Phillips thought of the unkempt state of Megan’s apartment and said nothing.

  “Why were you up there, Pete?”

  The man flushed again, to the roots of his hair.

  “We – she – I –” He stuttered to a stop.

  Ryan raised his eyes heavenward and looked across at Phillips, who took the unspoken cue.

  “Son, it’ll be better for everyone if you just tell us how it was. Look,” Phillips said confidentially, “she was a good-looking woman. A bit of a stunner, wasn’t she?”

  Pete gulped and nodded.

  “Must have fancied her a bit?”

  “Yeah,” Pete admitted.

  “Can’t blame you,” Frank continued. “Did you and she ever, y’know?” To Ryan’s fascination, Phillips made some sort of clacking sound with his teeth, paired with a lewd wink.

  It worked, because Pete grinned boyishly.

  “Yeah, only one time though.”

  “When?” Ryan asked simply.

  “End of October,” Pete said without hesitation. The date was etched into his memory, since it was the first and only time he had been with a woman. Not just any woman, either. The most beautiful woman on the island.

  Ryan thought back to Megan’s diary entry. Pete’s timing matched hers.

  “So, you two slept together at the end of October,” Ryan waited for Pete’s nod before continuing. “I need to ask you another question, then, Pete. Why did you transfer one hundred and fifty pounds into Megan’s bank account on the twenty-seventh of October?”

  Pete looked crestfallen.

  “I didn’t,” he said desperately.

  “Pete,” Phillips said indulgently. “You have to stop telling fibs.”

  “Sorry,” the young man mumbled. “It’s just that I thought – at the time, I thought she was really interested, you know? Then, the next day, she said how she was really low on cash and how if I cared about her I would help her out. I said ‘sure, no problem’. As soon as I gave her the money, she barely noticed I was there.”

  “That must have hurt,” Phillips said.

  “Yeah, it did,” Pete said quietly, “but to be honest, I was just kidding myself with Megan. She had her sights set elsewhere.”

  “Oh?” Ryan leaned forward again, interested. “Did she ever tell you who she was looking at?”

  “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out,” Pete said caustically

  Ryan thought back to the mysterious ‘D’ that Megan had spoken about and practically rubbed his hands together.

  “Looks like I’m not quite a genius, Pete, so you’ll have to help me out,” Ryan said with a friendly smile.

  “Duh,” Pete goggled his eyes.
“It was you.”

  Phillips just came short of guffawing at the disconsolate look which passed across Ryan’s and turned back to Pete.

  “The Chief Inspector isn’t used to having women fawn over him, Pete,” he said. “Not like us.”

  Pete chuckled, feeling better.

  “Nice tiles you’ve got on the patio,” Ryan said conversationally, all business again, casting his eye through the window to where a brand new patio had been laid with tables and chairs. He happened to know that those tiles had recently been purchased. “Local stone, aren’t they?”

  “Thanks, yeah, they’re new. Mum just had it done,” Pete said easily. “I thought wooden decking would last longer, but she liked the tiles.”

  “Know where she got them?”

  Pete looked confused, but answered easily enough.

  “The tiles? Sure, from this builder’s yard near Budle called Herbert & Co. I went and picked them up for her.”

  Ryan listened to the man’s quiet admission and thought that they were getting somewhere.

  “Must have taken a lot of grunt work,” Ryan said, looking at the size of the patio. “Fair amount of lifting.”

  “Yeah, a fair bit, but Lucy’s dad came round to help,” Pete answered. “He’s got a ride-on lawnmower with this attachment at the back for carrying stuff.”

  “That’s handy,” Ryan said blandly.

  “Yeah, mum didn’t want the lawn trampled by workmen, so that helped a lot.”

  “Mmm,” Ryan agreed. “So, what does he need a ride-on for?”

  “Huh? Oh, he does a bit of work for the Heritage. He cuts the lawns for the Priory, the nature reserve, the main square and stuff like that.”

  “Haven’t seen him cutting recently,” Phillips remarked, picking up the rhythm. Nice and easy, nice and slow, he thought as he stuffed another biscuit in his mouth.

  “Yeah, I guess he’s been too upset. Grass doesn’t grow all that much in the cold weather, anyway,” Pete added.

  Ryan thought back to the reports on the Mathieson home. It was standard procedure for them to search the premises of the deceased. There had been no opposition from Mr and Mrs Mathieson and the CSI’s had been through the entire premises, including the car and the shed in their garden.

  He didn’t remember seeing anything about a ride-on lawnmower.

  “I guess he must keep it up at the Priory, somewhere?” Ryan said.

  “Oh, nah, he keeps it here,” Pete said simply. “He doesn’t have a garage, but we’ve got a big one around the back. Mum hardly uses it nowadays, so she said he could keep the mower in there.”

  “How kind of her,” Phillips said dutifully.

  Ryan sat back and flipped his notebook closed. Pete noticed the action and his face brightened.

  “Is that it?” he said hopefully.

  Ryan and Phillips stood as if to leave. As they turned to go, Phillips asked,

  “Where do you get those little soaps – you know, the ones you put in the bedrooms? Got a nice scent to them.”

  “You can get them at the Gift Shop, at least that’s where we get them from,” Pete said helpfully.

  “Have you bought any, recently, Pete?”

  He stopped to think.

  “Yeah, I think I bought a few boxes a couple of weeks back, since we were getting low on stock. Why? You want me to give you some samples?”

  “No, we’re good. Thanks.”

  They nodded politely and opened the kitchen door. Ryan was unsurprised to find Alison Rigby fiddling with a flower arrangement on the table nearest the doorway.

  “Good morning, Mrs Rigby,” he said politely and grinned to himself when her lips pursed waspishly. She helped Phillips into his coat, brushed at the wool for stray fluff and said how she looked forward to seeing him later for dinner.

  Frank muttered something non-committal and was relieved to get out of the house, into the fresh air again.

  “What are you thinking, boss?”

  “I’m thinking that those tiles were quarried sandstone, reddish in colour. Easy enough for a bit to flake off when you’re moving them in bulk. I’m thinking that we’ve been chasing a bag of building sand when we should have been thinking laterally.” His jaw twitched. “Frank, I want you to get me a search warrant. Then, I think it’s time to pay another house call.”

  Behind them, Alison stood at the doorway and watched them round the corner towards the village. She noticed that the porch needed sweeping and made a mental note to do it right away.

  But, before then, she had a phone call to make.

  CHAPTER 25

  Half an hour later, after some superior negotiation with the local magistrate which had been expedited in no small part by Phillips’ friendship with the court usher, both men found themselves standing outside the garage at the Lindisfarne Inn.

  They had already bypassed Mrs Rigby, who had overcome her initial outrage at the sight of a search warrant by the prospect of ‘entertaining’ a number of young, male police officers. Still, she stayed near the window, where she could keep an eye on Ryan as he assessed the garage.

  “Get it open.” Ryan instructed one of the officers, who unlocked the hefty double doors and swung them open.

  Inside, shining as if it were new, stood an industrial green ride-on lawn mower with a detachable carrier at the back.

  “Not a speck of grass on it,” Phillips said, annoyed.

  “There’s always something, Frank,” Ryan contradicted, but as he moved closer he could still smell the faint odour of bleach.

  “He’s cleaned it from top to bottom,” Phillips said angrily.

  “Yes, or perhaps someone helped him,” Ryan lifted stormy grey eyes towards the house and the people within. “That’s a possibility.”

  Phillips popped his gum.

  “So, what do we think happened?” Frank started. “Mathieson hides his mower here, doesn’t bother mentioning it and gives himself time to clean it all up?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “He must have known we couldn’t search the Inn without cause,” Frank added.

  “He’s not a fool,” Ryan murmured, edging closer to the mower, but leaving a wide berth so as not to disturb any remaining evidence.

  “So, he didn’t need to cart her body all the way. He could hitch her on the back of this and drive as far as the fence to the Priory,” Frank continued.

  “Could have driven all the way up if he wanted to,” Ryan said, imagining it, “but he’d already risked making too much noise with this thing.” He took out a latex glove, slipped it on and leaned across to start the engine. It roared to life with a smooth purr.

  “Not too loud,” he commented, “but still noticeable.”

  “That’s the engine noise people heard. One of them said how she thought it was a motorboat on the water, coming in late or something,” Phillips said.

  “Yep,” Ryan nodded, “it’s plausible and probably the conclusion he hoped anybody would draw if they heard him.”

  “Boss,” Phillips said as he wandered the other side of the mower. “Take a look at this.”

  Eyes sharp, Ryan carefully walked around the other side.

  “Well, now, look at that.”

  In the corner of the garage stood several stacked boxes marked with the stamp of the Heritage Gift Shop. One had been ripped open to reveal a stash of small, carefully-wrapped soaps. Further along the wall stood a water tap which supplied water to the garden hose outside.

  The floor was concrete and like the mower, was sparkling clean.

  “He took a risk, bringing her here,” Ryan commented. “Somebody must have seen him.”

  “Nobody says they did.”

  “It’s three streets from here to Mathieson’s cottage,” he said. “He passed a bunch of houses between here and there.”

  “Not if he went along the gardens,” Phillips said. “There’s a long alley which leads behind the row of cottages, with gates off it for access to each garden.”

  “Back
, through the gardens, along the alley behind the row of houses, then he’s only risking being seen by the cottages on the end?”

  “That’s it,” Frank nodded.

  “Still a massive risk,” Ryan concluded.

  “Yeah, but he’s already killed, so what does he care?”

  “Fair point.” First rule of murder investigation, Ryan thought, was not to expect the perp to think like a normal person. “Let Faulkner’s team in, I want this place going over inch-by-inch. There would have been sandy residue in that carrier, chipped off from the big pile of tiles he transported for Mrs Rigby,” he added. “If he dumped Lucy in there to transport, maybe he didn’t realise she was still alive when he took her up to the Priory.”

  “Still alive?” Phillips turned horrified eyes to his SIO.

  “You didn’t connect the dots?” Ryan wasn’t known for his patience. “Of course, she was. Pathologist confirmed the blow to the head was received ante-mortem. I see it like this,” he spread his hands. “He gets angry when she rolls in late, gets jealous and finally snaps, since he’s a little bit loco.” Ryan made a circular motion with one finger near his temple.

  “He finds his hands round her throat, squeezes tight enough to make her pass out, but he thinks he’s killed her so he panics. He carries her out through the garden, along the alley, over here. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to clean her up at home, maybe he’s afraid his wife will wake up and find him. Anyway, he’s got some funky ideas about ritual burial, so he cleans her up, makes her pretty for the afterlife. Uses the hose, the soap. The camphor?” Ryan paused. “Maybe he grabbed that as he left, had to have done, because Lucy bought the stuff. Maybe he thinks it’s poetic that he’s using something she bought herself.” Ryan shrugged.

  “Then he dumps her on there,” Phillips jerked a thumb at the carrier. “Doesn’t realise she’s hit her head. Drives up to the Priory, keeps it slow and steady even if he wanted to rush.”

  “Yep, he had to have been sweating like a pig on market day,” Ryan muttered, thinking of it. “Must have wanted to punch the engine up there, but couldn’t risk the noise.”

  “So he parks, carries her up the rest of the way?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan nodded, stepping back out into the misty air. “Sets her up, maybe he’s praying for her immortal soul or dancing butt naked when she starts to come round, who knows. He craps himself and tries again, finishes the job this time.”